


You're the Louvre Museum

by Tam_Cranver



Category: Holiday (1938)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tam_Cranver/pseuds/Tam_Cranver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny and Linda find ways to occupy themselves in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're the Louvre Museum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Title from Cole Porter's "You're the Top."

Linda had woken up with a heavy weight on her heart for so long that these days, in the drafty, leaky little Parisian flat she and Johnny shared with Nick and Susan Potter, she practically flew out of bed, rocketing up like a balloon released from its string. 

They’d been there a week, having landed in Calais the previous Wednesday, the day after her and Johnny’s wedding. It had a brief ceremony in a dingy little chapel in Dover, with only Nick and Susan as witnesses--Father would have had kittens--but now, Linda was officially Linda Case. She’d never been so happy to write her name in her life. And so far her honeymoon had been nothing but wonderful, whether walking around the Louvre or haggling over the price of produce. 

“What’s on tap for the day, kids?” she asked brightly over breakfast. She’d been to Paris before, of course--shopping on the Champs Elysée with Julia and Laura, theater with Aunt Helen and Uncle Horace--but travelling with Johnny and the Potters made it a new city in her eyes, beautiful and exciting. Even the dingy little café around the block from their flat, where they were sipping coffee and eating profiteroles, seemed like a thrill. Nick and Susan had a lot of research to do, but that was all right--it left all the more time for Johnny and Linda to spend together. Linda didn’t remember when she’d last been so optimistic about every new day.

“Best day yet,” said Nick, slathering yet more butter on his pastry. “I finally got Jean-Paul over at the Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt to let me at their playbill collection. Rumor has it they’ve got all _kinds_ of old things for me to play with. Berlioz, Bizet, the works!”

“Some men get soppy about their wives. Mine gets soppy about old theater handbills,” Susan said, rolling her eyes. It was true, Nick did have a romantic gleam in his eye. But far better, thought Linda, to be in love with old theaters and plays than to be in love with money, or worse yet, to be in love with nothing at all. 

Johnny laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out of that one, old man. I’m not in any mood to get chased out of another theater by angry Frenchmen.”

“To be fair, you _did_ knock over that lovely ballet set,” Susan pointed out. “Anybody who didn’t know you would think you were auditioning for the role of the bull in a china shop.”

It _had_ been rather spectacularly clumsy, like a pratfall from a pantomime. “Maybe we’d better keep you out of doors today. Less to break. And it’s such a lovely day--let’s walk over to the boulevard du Montparnasse and see where the artists and writers live. At least, where Hemingway lived, I hear, but I’m sure the street also attracts a superior sort.”

Johnny laughed. “Sounds educational. Count me in. What do you say, Susan, would you like to come along?”

“No thanks, my boy. I hear the Bibliothèque Nationale calling my name.”

“‘Susan Porter,’ it’s calling,” said Nick with affected glumness, and they all laughed. Linda loved that about Nick and Susan; for Edward Seton, a mysterious and persistent inability on the part of people he met to remember his name would have gotten him hopping mad, but for the Potters, it had become something of an inside joke. It showed good sense on their part, she thought; good priorities, and the sensibility to save their anger for the important things.

After breakfast, the group split up, Linda and Johnny heading towards the boulevard du Montparnasse in their quest for artistic enlightenment. Since they were staying in the Quartier Latin, close to the university, it wasn’t too much of a trek, and when they reached the street itself, the only people at the cafés were sleepy-eyed workmen and academics getting ready for the day. 

“Too early for the artistic crowd, I suppose,” said Linda, feeling mildly disappointed. 

“Don’t you know, no self-respecting artist gets up before noon,” Johnny said, as cheerful as ever. “Come on, kid, let’s stroll around for a while, kill some time. We’ll catch you an artist yet.”

They walked over to the Luxembourg Gardens where they parked themselves for a spell. The day was cold, but clear and sunny, and the sun glistening on the frost made the park look as if it had been spun of glass, some sort of crystalline fairy kingdom. Johnny entertained himself by taking in every inch of the gardens he could see; Linda entertained herself by watching Johnny look at the gardens. The Luxembourg Gardens, thought Linda, were a far cry from Lake Placid, and for a kid from Baltimore who’d never done much traveling or had any time to take in the sights, they were really something to see. They weren’t half bad for a cynical old dreamer from New York, either, but they didn’t hold a candle to the light in Johnny’s eyes.

He sighed with pleasure. “Gosh, this Paris is a nice city. Too bad I can’t sing--if we were in a musical, this is just about the time they’d burst out into song.”

“I can sing a little ‘Paris-Mediterranée’ if you want,” offered Linda. “I can’t really sing, and it’s not exactly a happy song, but if you feel the occasion really calls for it....”

“All right, all right,” said Johnny with a laugh. “Darling, the musical’s off. But if you don’t mind my off-key humming....” He stood from his place on the bench and held out his hand. “Shall we dance?”

Linda had danced countless times in her days--at school, at parties, with her cousins, with Broadway hoofers hired for the occasion--but this shuffling slow dance in front of a park bench, with Johnny humming “You’re the Top” in her ear, was without question the best dance of her life. 

When they finished, they got a merry round of applause from an elderly couple seated in a bench across the pathway. Johnny and Linda took a bow, half-sheepish and half-giddy. The sun had risen, melting the layer of frost on the grass, and Linda was ready for another cup of coffee, to take the chill from her fingers.

First, they went to the post office and sent an update to Ned--“Having a fantastic time in Paris stop. Feel very educated hanging around the Latin Quarter stop. Wish you were here stop. If you’re moping around drinking stop!” Linda thought about including a line about the attractive young men she’d seen in the city so far, some of whom were exactly Ned’s type, but decided against it. There was no guarantee that Father wouldn’t catch the telegram first, and there was no sense in making life even more difficult for Ned, the poor kid. They were going to have to sail back to New York and drag Ned over the ocean with them, so that he could be as happy as Linda was now.

The message sent, they found themselves the grimiest little café on the boulevard that they could, something Julia and Father would never set foot in, and settled themselves in for another round of coffee and pastries. They had a bit of difficulty without Susan as a translator. It was anyone’s guess who got along worse in Paris--Linda, who hadn’t brought out her finishing school French in years, or Johnny, who’d taken German at university and tended to struggle along in restaurants by just imitating what he heard people at the next table over saying. Somehow they muddled through and obtained themselves some café crème and croissants. 

While they sat and ate, other customers filtered into the café, including an oddly-dressed bunch wearing oversized smocks and funny facial hair. Linda nudged Johnny’s elbow. “Look sharp, now,” she said. “Artists at 3 o’clock.”

Johnny looked up from his chocolate croissant. “Is that what artists look like, then?”

“Count on it,” said Linda confidently.

The possible artists started a spirited discussion, on which Linda avidly eavesdropped, translating as best she could for Johnny under her breath. They were artists, as it turned out--the pretentious kind, who thought themselves and their work the most important thing in the world, who didn’t give a damn for what went on in the rest of the world so long as they had paint and a muse. Disappointing, but not unexpected. Linda had encountered that sort before; New York had plenty of them.

They were new to Johnny, she could tell; he looked vaguely baffled by some of the things the ranters said, interested by others. “Huh,” said Johnny, after Linda had translated a particularly philosophical harangue from the tall fellow at the center of the group. A big load of hot air about not letting the sordidness of the world distract from your vision. Exchange ‘artistic vision’ for ‘making money’ and Loudmouth would have fitted right in among Father’s financial crowd. “Maybe they’ve got the right of it, these artist fellows. Devote yourself to the beautiful things in life and hang all the rest of it.”

Linda was shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. “No. They haven’t got the right of it. Not for you.”

“No?” She couldn’t be sure whether it was a genuine question or not. Johnny wasn’t an inflexible man, and was willing to be led if he trusted you, but there was always something underneath it like a core of steel. He had real principles and wouldn’t shake on them. It was this that had told Linda that marrying him wouldn’t be a mistake. That, and the fact that he wasn’t one of these airy artistic nothings who didn’t give a straw for the struggles and sufferings around him. 

“No,” she said. “Art’s all well and good, as far as it goes, but what’s art if it isn’t about anything real? And in Paris, of all places, where people have had revolutions, and been occupied by enemy powers, and fought about things like liberty and equality? Johnny, you’re the one who told me you wanted to figure out what all the changes in the world were about. Well, we’re not going to find out here. If we’re going to try to change the world for the better, we’ll need better ideas than that. I say we go find ourselves another café, see if we can’t find a set of artists who care about more than themselves.”

Johnny smiled warmly at her and brushed the crumbs from his lap. Before they could get up to leave, though, the man at the next table over put a hand to Linda’s shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said, in English, but with an accent. Not French or British. Spanish, maybe? “I couldn’t help but overhear you, madam. You are in Paris to find out things about the world?”

“You could say that,” said Linda.

“You could also say we’re in Paris on our honeymoon, I guess,” Johnny added. “Or to keep our friends company. Why do you ask?”

“My congratulations. It’s only that, if you are interested in something real, well. I maybe have some people you might like to meet.”

Introductions were exchanged. Their new friend was called José, and he was, in fact, Spanish. He was a painter who’d fought against Franco and his fascists, and had been forced out of the country. He explained as he walked that there were lots of them like that, Spanish republicans in exile, and that they hadn’t all been as lucky as him, who had a couple of French friends willing to take them in. Lots of them were living in dreadful refugee camps, with extremely precarious futures. Linda had heard a bit about that, even if her father had nixed her idea of joining the Abraham Lincoln Brigade before it had time to develop. It was terrible to hear from José about how the war had ended, and to think how isolated from it all Linda and her family and friends had been. 

But things weren’t completely over yet. A fellow José knew--an Chilean poet, he was, a good deal more successful and famous than José but ran in similar circles--was getting up a scheme to find a great many of them homes in Chile. There was a great deal to be done--finding a suitable ship, reuniting families who had been separated in the chaos, and of course raising money to fund the venture. A great many poets and artists were involved, said José, and if Linda and Johnny were interested....

Linda and Johnny were. Linda loved nothing so much as a cause to fight for, and Johnny liked the idea of occupying himself with something that mattered.

And so the Cases had something to keep themselves busy while Nick researched nineteenth-century French theater and Susan researched revolutionary rhetoric during the various political upsets of the past centuries. José was happy to introduce them around; to Linda’s complete lack of surprise, Johnny got along swimmingly with the poets, the painters, and the loud young Communists, but she was rather surprised how well she got along with them all. One crowd’s black sheep is another’s darling, she supposed. When she telegrammed Ned about it, expecting to get a laugh out of him, instead she got a terse message that brought a lump to her throat: “Good stop. Glad you’re finally getting appreciated the way you deserve stop.” He was a good egg, that Ned.

So was Johnny, who hadn’t any experience in international politics but had a great deal of experience in doing the gritty day-to-day things that needed to be done to keep people going. They raised money, wrote letters, improved their Spanish, brought packages of clothing and food to refugees in Gurs, listened to a great deal of poetry. The time passed swiftly. Johnny and Linda weren’t tourists anymore; they had a place, a useful place, and a purpose. It was surprising when Nick had to renew his funding at the end of six months; it had both felt like no time at all, and like they had never been anywhere else. Linda wondered if this was what it felt like to find one’s calling in life. She cried when they sent the ship off in August, and not only from happiness, but from the feeling that something very important in her life had ended. This was, perhaps, the first thing she had tried to do in her life that she had been able to see through to its completion.

It all seemed so very distant from New York and the Setons, Neddie aside, that it was quite a shock when they got a telegram from Linda’s cousin Rose, inviting them out to her husband’s place in Sussex, England.

“Oh, cousin Rose,” said Johnny. “Have we met her yet?”

“We haven’t,” said Linda, scanning the telegram for any hint as to the reason for this invitation out of the blue.

Nick gave her a sympathetic smile. “Stuffed shirt set?”

“No, she’s all right,” said Linda. “Other side of the family. Mother’s side had considerably less starch, though I think Rose married into England’s starchy set. I wonder what the occasion is?”

Susan cast a quick glance over the telegram before shaking her head and saying, “Well, I can’t figure out any hidden message. Either we’ll have to send out for a decoder ring, or you’ll have to go up there to find out.”

“You’ll come with, won’t you?” Linda implored. “I promise, you’ll like Rose, and Reggie’s place in Sussex is really quite nice. Especially if his parents aren’t there.”

“She won’t mind?” Nick raised an eyebrow questioningly. 

Rose, like Mother, believed in fun and family and hospitality. “She won’t mind,” Linda said confidently.

She was right. Rose’s only comment on the arrival of Nick and Susan along with Linda and Johnny was “The more the merrier!” This was followed by a remark that apparently Seton Cram wouldn’t shut up about Linda’s behavior in marrying Johnny, but now that Rose had seen Johnny, she heartily approved of Linda’s decision.

“Oh, Seton,” said Linda, rolling her eyes. “Are he and Laura threatening to disown you for having us over here?”

“Seton Cram’s not related to me anyway, thank God. And if he doesn’t like who I host, well, he’s welcome to invite whomever he likes back to his home on the island of Doctor Moreau.”

Nick cocked his head and grinned at her as if he was pleasantly surprised. Which was fair enough; after the experiences he’d had with Linda’s relations so far, his expectations had to be pretty low. “Oh, I like this one,” he said. “Gold star!”

“Why, professor!” Rose put a hand to her heart. “That’s the nicest thing a teacher’s ever said to me!”

After a thoroughly pleasant dinner with Rose, Reggie, and their kids, Fred and Elizabeth, Linda decided it was time to get down to business. “So, Cousin,” she said, “What’s behind the sudden burst of hospitality?”

“If I’d have known where you were, I’d have had you over earlier.” Rose fixed Linda with a stern stare. “What’s the big idea, crossing the Atlantic without giving me your address? I guess Ned didn’t want to tell Julia and her fiancé your exact location, the pest, so they sent this invitation to Reggie and me and asked me to pass it along.” She got up and pulled a thick envelope from a stack of papers on a side table, holding it in front of Linda.

“Her fiancé?” Linda grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. Sure enough, John and Linda Case were cordially invited to the wedding of Julia Seton and Cornelius Van Horn, to be held on the 15th of September, 1939, in New York City. “When did all this happen? How?”

Rose shrugged. “Beats me. We’ve had Corny and his brother Arnold over here before--his mother’s a Brit, had her heart set on the boys going to Oxford, et cetera--but I don’t know how he and Julia met.”

Nick mouthed the name “Corny” to himself, eyebrows raised, and Susan mouthed back “Corny Van Horn.” They made faces at each other. 

“Hey, there,” Johnny said. “Looks like there’s a letter in this envelope, too.”

There was. Linda could only think of one person who’d stick a letter in Julia’s wedding invitation--only one person who even could--and felt her stomach churn. “Mind if I take this...?” she asked, gesturing vaguely. 

“Go on into the den,” said Rose immediately. “Light’s good in there and nobody will bother you.”

The den was a cozy little room, reminiscent of the play room at home but without the toys and with a much greener color scheme. The fire burned warmly and cheerfully, giving the room a happy lightness that was totally at odds with Linda’s mood. She bit her lip--there was no sense in putting these things off--and pulled out the letter.

As she’d thought--feared--hoped--the letter was in Julia’s clear, surprisingly exuberant hand. Dear Linda, it said. Well, that could be the beginning of almost anything, good or bad.

Dear Linda,

I hope you are all right. I like to think that if anything had gone wrong, you would tell Ned and Ned would tell me, but Ned’s been awfully sarcastic lately and drinking even more than usual, so to be honest, I’m not sure I’d get the message if something happened.

I am sorry for how we parted. I suppose if you thought that I always agreed with everything you said, than it was my own fault for not speaking more clearly. I don’t like to fight like you do, and I never have, but I never meant to give you the wrong idea about how I think about things. I don’t understand what’s so wrong about wanting to live comfortably and deal with serious, everyday matters\--Linda had to stop there and try not to grit her teeth\--but I know that you were very unhappy, and I hope you and Johnny are happy now. Father thought you would be back before too long, but I said that if he thought that, he didn’t know you very well. I don’t think I knew you very well until you were gone, but I do think I understand you a little better now. 

Corny is a very good man. I don’t know if you’ll like him, but I do. Now that I know him, I realized that I went about things all wrong with Johnny, and so it seems obvious how he got the wrong idea about me. Corny comes from a good family, and we get along very well.. He’s very interested in expanding his shipping business, and I have some good ideas for it--he says I’ll be a great help to him. He and I like doing the same sorts of things, the ballet, hunting, throwing parties, all the things I’ve always liked doing. I think all that’s more important than a quick flash of vacation dreams, isn’t it, to know that you can live with somebody and make each other happy?

Please come to my wedding. Johnny, too. I know you won’t have much fun, and you hate all my friends, but come anyway. You’re my only sister. I miss you, and I want to know what you’re doing with your life, and I think Ned would be the better for seeing you. It’ll only be a few days.

Your sister,  
Julia 

Linda wiped a tear from her eye. Her nose was running.

“You seem like a woman in need of a handkerchief,” said Johnny. She hadn’t heard him come in, and she looked up to see the firelight flickering over his face, making his sympathetic smile look somewhat enigmatic. He was holding a hanky in his hand.

“Well, are you going to give it to me, or aren’t you?” She felt unaccountably cross. It had been a while since she’d been caught at such a disadvantage.

Johnny handed her the handkerchief and watched quietly while she wiped her face.“I guess she’s not pining for me too terribly,” he said after a moment, his voice determinedly light.

Linda said, “I guess not,” feeling a curious mixture of happiness and sadness. 

“So. Are we going to the wedding?” For someone who had come within a hair of marrying the bride, Johnny didn’t seem to have much personal stake in the question. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Linda. Whatever she said, he would do. 

She took a deep breath. “Yes. I think we ought to go, if you can keep yourself from running away with the wrong Seton sister.”

“Not much chance of that,” he said, smiling warmly and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “As long as you don’t run off with some Very Important Person. Just think, if you’d hung around New York, you could be Linda Van Horn right now.”

“I’d rather be Linda Case,” said Linda firmly. “Oh, Johnny, I hope--I know she isn’t much like me, we don’t understand each other, but I do hope she’ll be happy. I hope this Van Horn person is a good sort, and that Father doesn’t stick his nose in too much. I always wanted the world for her, and I can’t....” She couldn’t put it into words. Her voice caught in her throat, and Johnny drew her into his arms. She clung to him and tried to sort through the whirlwind of thoughts in her head.

The idea of being stuck with that dreadful mob of rich bores seemed like a fate worse than death to her, and it was hard to imagine congratulating someone for embracing that fate. But it was what Julia wanted. There was no sense in thinking as if Julia were the imaginary sister Linda had built in her head. Whoever Julia was, whatever she wanted out of life, Linda had to take her as she was.

That was all right, she decided. Whoever Julia was, Linda had loved her since she was born. She had done harder things in the last eight months than make small talk with idiots at a wedding. And with Johnny at her side, well, the idea wasn’t as terrifying as it would have been a year ago. “Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat, “She was terribly decent about my stealing you, so I suppose I’ve got to go make nice.”

“Oh, you didn’t steal me. More of a mutual giving thing, wouldn’t you say? Very loving. Very sisterly.”

“She should have given me a gift receipt,” said Linda, swatting his arm. “Come on, you. I suppose you think you’re ready for anything the Setons might throw at you, aren’t you?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I suppose I am.”

“Well, you haven’t seen anything yet. Not until you’ve seen a Seton wedding.”

“You think they’ll have it in a big old church?”

Rose and Reggie and Nick and Susan were probably wondering what was keeping them so long. She grabbed Johnny’s arm and started pulling him out of the den. “No doubt about it. No Seton worth her salt would skip out on a matrimony in those grand old hallowed halls. Why?”

He shrugged and said with an impish grin, “I guess as long as I can do a couple of back flip-flops, I’ll get through it okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Linda and Johnny are helping out with raising funds for the [SS Winnipeg](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Winnipeg), which left France for Chile on August 4, 1939 with 2,200 refugees of the Spanish Civil War onboard. Being sadly uneducated about this fascinating episode in history, I apologize for liberties I've taken with it and for the short shrift it gets in the story. 
> 
> Edith Piaf released ["Paris-Méditerranée"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1Yy0_tFGHM) in 1938, but as Linda says, it's not exactly a 'dancing in the park' kind of song.


End file.
